On the morrow, the anxiously expected missive was delivered to him. In the dry and laconic style of office, the commandant announced that no change could be made in the distribution of the walls, moats, or ditches of the fortress of Fenestrella, unless by the express sanction of the Governor of Turin; “and the pavement of the court,” added the commandant, “is virtually a wall of the prison.” Charney stood confounded by the stupidity of such an argument! To make the preservation of a flower a state question—a demolition of the imperial fortification—to wait a reply from the Governor of Turin! wait a century, when a day’s delay was likely to prove fatal! The Governor might perhaps refer him to the prime minister, the minister to the senate, the senate to the emperor himself. What profound contempt for the littleness of mankind arose in his bosom at the idea! Even Ludovico appeared little better in his eyes than the assistant of the executioner: for on the first outburst of his indignation, the jailer remonstrated in the tone of an underling of the administration, replying to all his entreaties by citing the rules and regulations of the fortress. [Illustration] Charney drew near to the feeble invalid whose bloom was already withering; with what grief did he now contemplate her fading hues! The happiness—the poetry of his life seemed vanishing before him. The fragrance of Picciola already indicated a mistaken hour, like a watch whose movements are out of order. Every blossom drooping on its stem had renounced the power of turning towards the sun; as a dying girl closes her eyes that she may not behold the lover, the sight of whom might attach her anew to a world from which she is departing. While Charney was giving way to these painful reflections, the voice of his venerable companion in captivity appealed to his attention. “My dear comrade,” whispered the mild and paternal accents of the old man, “if she should die—and I fear her hours are numbered—what will become of you here alone? What occupation will you find to fill the place of those pursuits that have become so dear to you? You will expire, in your turn, of lassitude and ennui; solitude once invaded, becomes insupportable in the renewal! You will sink under its weight, as I should, were I now parted from my daughter—from the guardian angel whose smile is the sunshine of my prison. With respect to your plant, the Alpine breezes doubtless wafted hither the seed, or a bird of the air dropped it from his beak; and even were the same circumstance to furnish you with a second Picciola, your joy in the present would be gone, prepared as you would be to see it perish like the first. My dear neighbour, be persuaded! suffer me to have your liberty interceded for by my friends. Your release will perhaps be more easily obtained than you are aware of. A thousand traits of clemency and generosity of the new emperor are everywhere rumoured. He is now at Turin, accompanied by Josephine.”